Alina Morris owned a large house, a large house to fit a large family. A large house for walls of photos and inspirational quotes. A large house for an office and a large kitchen, because God knows how much Alina enjoys cooking. So much so, she owned her own bakery. Every Sunday she would make large, homemade lasagna, and all of her children would thank her graciously. Her husband would kiss her left cheek and tell her, “It looks great, honey.” Alina and Mark were in a happy marriage with three children: Marie, Michael, and Mabel. All of the children had dark hair with dark eyes, similar to their mother. With pale skin just like their father.

When the kids were little, Alina and Mark would take them on picnics in the local park every Sunday after church. Their picnic basket would be overflowing with sandwiches, fruits, vegetables, cheeses, crackers, and Alina’s famous homemade dessert. They would commune together, enjoying one another’s company, conversing about the church service. The kids would occasionally make jokes about Pastor Jenkins’ bald head. Afterwards, Mark would push them in the swings, joy spread across all their faces as they believed they could almost fly away. Alina’s heart would swell up at the sight.

After playtime, they would all return to the blanket for dessert. Alina would always bring her fresh, homemade peach cobbler. This was everyone’s favorite dish. The kids would gobble it up, until their bellies were full and their faces were messy. Mark would laugh and pull out his polaroid camera, taking pictures. “These moments will last forever,” as he said.

But then the children got older. No more picnics, they were too grown up for that. Now, they eat dinner at the dining room table every Sunday. The faint flicker of the candles on the dinner table would cast shadows across their small faces and light up their large eyes. Alina hated using the chandelier that hung over the dining room table while they ate dinner. She believed the candles provided a soft and homely light. Mark would always take the first bite, comment on how delicious it always was.

He never mentioned how he was slowly becoming sick of her lasagna.

Once they had finished dinner, the kids would take their dishes to the sink. It was always Mabel’s job to blow out the candles, and Mark would turn on the television that was stationed in the large living room. He would lie on the large charcoal colored couch and doze off. The kids would go to their rooms to finish their homework. Alina would clean the kitchen. Every Sunday.

Following dinner, Alina would try to make her famous peach cobbler. From the millions of times she had made it for their picnics, she knew the recipe by heart: can of peaches, 1/4 cup white sugar, 1/4 cup brown sugar, 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon, nutmeg, and cornstarch. She made it the same way for a decade, yet as time went on, her family appeared to enjoy it less. The kids would no longer jump and giggle when she pulled it out of the oven. Marie became too busy to help stir the batter. Michael wouldn’t beg to have ice cream on the side. Mable was now quiet and stoic, no longer the little girl who begged her father to push her in the swings. As for Mark, he wouldn’t pull out his camera anymore. He threw that out years ago. These moments weren’t worth saving to him.

Alina began to fear she was doing something wrong. Perhaps her memory had mistaken her. She couldn’t bring herself to think that maybe, they had just began to tire of it.

One Sunday, Alina decided to try a new dessert: chocolate chip cookies. She even put in extra chocolate chips, they used to be Michael’s favorite as a child. Even then, she earned nothing more from her family than nods of approval.

Marie was the first to leave the family. She had chosen a college far away from their large house. Alina helped her gather her things and place them in flimsy cardboard boxes. Mark napped on the couch, as usual. She closed down the bakery for a few days and drove Marie to her school.  She took pictures, gave Marie an encouraging smile and hug, and drove back to her house. Her large house with a large empty bedroom. She walked straight to the kitchen with a smile. Mark was sleeping on the couch. She tied her tidy beige apron around her waist before beginning. She baked a dozen chocolate chip cookies. For some reason though, they were so dry they would crumble at the slightest touch.

A year passed by with one phone call a week from Marie. The conversations were always the same. Eventually, once a week turned to once a month.

“Yes, I’m doing fine here.”

“My grades are good.”

“I’ve made friends.”

“Yes.”

“I have to go. Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

Michael was the next child to leave. He had decided to take a gap year and spend it in France. Alina had always wanted to travel to France, but she never found the time. Too much baking needed to be done. And Mark never wanted to. She inquired Michael why he would want to spend a whole year so far away.

“Independence.”

Alina helped him pack his things in a flimsy box left over from when Marie left. All the while she would gaze at the picture above Michael’s bed. It was from one of their Sunday picnics when he was little. She took it down and was about to place it the box when Michael blocked her.

“That can stay here. There won’t be any space in my room.”

Alina drove Michael to the airport later that day. With a kiss on the forehead and a single box full of his belongings, she sent him off to his new life. A life far away from her. She drove home to her large house with now two large empty bedrooms. She put on her apron on opened the cupboard, which seemed to creak more than usual. She baked a batch of brownies.

Another year passed.

Many brownies were made. And puddings. And pies. Cakes, cookies, custard. A lot of baking could be done in a year. Mabel used to enjoy the homemade chocolate pudding, but now she wouldn’t even touch it-- shenow she wouldn’t even touch it- she had been ‘trying to shed a few pounds’She left later that year to live with her boyfriend.

. She left later that year to live with her boyfriend. Alina had expanded her cooking repertoire. Tiramisu, Boston Creme Pie, pound cake… too many to keep track of. She would bake every night, into the wee hours of the morning. Her kitchen was filled to the brim, practically overflowing with baked goods. Yet, she still felt empty. All this food with no one to eat it. All these rooms with no one to fill them. Mark began to work later, he would return long after the sun had set, just as his wife had begun baking. Some nights he would stumble in the front door, struggling to keep himself upright. Alina always offered to help, but he would shrug her off. Then she would present him with her newest dish, but he was never hungry. These occurrences were once very seldom, but with time they became more frequent. With time, Mark became angrier. With time, he came home later.  he began to come home later. One night, Mark didn’t return home. Alina waited for hours, her delicious creation put on display, awaiting husband’s approval. She eventually became worried. He always came home, and he wasn’t answering her calls. That night, she fell asleep by the phone. She waited for a phone call that never came. When she awoke, Mark was waiting on the couch. She found out about Evelyn.

The house felt like it had gotten larger. There were now a million empty rooms with millions of missing people. Yet, her kitchen began to shrink. There was no longer room for any more goods. Eventually, her house was filled with cakes and cookies. The days passed by slow and the nights even slower. She could not remember how long it had been since her home had been occupied occupied. Every day, more and more memories would leave her. Leaving her with empty spaces. Too many blanks and not enough to fill them.

Alina eventually sold her bakery. She had forgotten all of her recipes. She had become too weak to go to work every day. She would spend her days sitting at the kitchen counter, staring off. As she would stare, she would look for somewhere. A place that wasn’t so lonesome, a place where people would fill her large house. She never saw one.

One morning, Alina awoke in her bed. The sun was shining on the walls, creating a spotlight on the family portrait that hung above her dresser. She could not move. She was far too tired to get out of bed. Her limbs felt heavy and her chest felt empty. Her wrinkled hands shook as she tried to lift her fingers off the bed, reaching towards that picture, almost trying to reach back in time. And for a split second, she could swear she could hear her children’s laughs, filling her once empty house, as the smell of peach cobbler wafting through the air.